


the modern notion of romantic love (is seriously misguided)

by perpetualskies



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Jewish Character, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, soft beans that are already lovers, writing a character with a short name IS hard and I SHOULD say it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 04:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20204077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetualskies/pseuds/perpetualskies
Summary: “In any case,” Andrew adds, and turns himself around in Dev’s arms, “that’s not what I meant for you to take away from this.”





	the modern notion of romantic love (is seriously misguided)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired entirely by the Oscars 2017 and this clip: whenharrymetsally89.tumblr.com/post/184287529223 (pls watch before reading), and powered by two hot seconds of research that revealed to me that Andrew is Jewish. (Fuck yeah, motherfrickers!!!) Andrew lives in New York and Dev in London for the purpose of this fic. Dedicated to my partner in rarepair crimes ao3 user nahco3.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction and means no disrespect towards the parties depicted within. Please do NOT share this with the actors or anyone associated with them, or re-post this work anywhere else. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Comments are love ❤

New York’s a little washed out, a little fickle, frankly a little “meh” about the early April state of things. Dev didn’t pack an umbrella because he only has to make it to Andrew’s, and has already half-regretted this decision. Has quietly decided looking at the brewing, slate grey sky drawn up: Andrew’s apartment? The little books & bagels shop around the corner? That’s all the sightseeing he will need this time around. It isn’t Dev’s first time in the city, and it isn’t going to be his last. So, yeah—it’s fucking _New York City_, but also—it’s fucking _Andrew_, in slacks and navy knitted jumper, in what suspiciously looks like Dev’s own worn-out and long-since-missing shirt. It’s local Yorkshire tea blends and re-watching _Moonlight_, it’s pressing him against the kitchen counter, kosher peanut butter cups and sleeping in. 

It’s only been a couple of weeks, Dev tells himself, no need for him to get _this_ nervous. Then thinks again, decides—it’s _nice_, to feel the way he does right now, the jittery knee, the hitch in respiration, despite how many months they’ve been at this. He pushes back against the headrest, tunes out the city gliding by. He’s got a forty minute ride ahead of him and just thinks—_Andrew_, the feel, the radiance of him, the way his name refracts so sweetly on his tongue.

It’s barely been a couple hours, decidedly too short for Andrew to be already this apologetic about something. 

“It’s just—I promised them I’d do this thing _today_,” Andrew explains and bites his lip.

He’s got his phone and laptop in position, some kind of hashtag _Ask Andrew Garfield_ thing that Dev might have secretly checked up on in the airport lounge. Dev’s still appropriately jet-lagged, has quietly made his peace with staying on this very couch all day.

“It’s _okay_,” he says for what must be the twentieth time already, smiling, and it _is_. Andrew’s here, less than an arm’s reach from him, they had iced coffee and some divine Greek farmer’s omelette for—well, whatever meal of the day it was, and Dev has enough to do to keep him busy for an hour, _really, Andrew, it’s alright_. He’s got an obscene amount of e-mails to get to, at least two belated birthday messages, has got to look up that store in Downtown Manhattan that his sister asked him to drop by. 

Besides, he likes being a part of Andrew’s normal life, likes to pretend (to hope, to dream) that this is what it could be like for them some day. Just—quietly working and living beside the other, oblivious to what time zone they are in, falling asleep together and not worrying about how many days exactly there are left. 

Andrew presses one last quick kiss to the corner of Dev’s mouth and says, more to himself, “Alright, let’s do this.” Dev inches his toes under his thigh and dutifully clicks _reply to: all._

Three e-mails later, Dev is exactly the right amount of tired and cosy to flip his laptop shut and burrow further into the pillows. He gets his phone out so that it looks like he is doing _something_, though Andrew’s voice and the backdrop of the distinctly non-English rain is really all he needs. He really, really shouldn’t sleep—it’d only make it worse for him, he _knows_ that much, it’s just so—_tempting_. He contemplates the idea of tea and thinks, _In just a moment, what if I closed my eyes for just a bit..._

“I’m done!” Andrew exclaims, and Dev jolts up a little. “No more phones! No more Twitters! No more Instagrams!” He puts the phone down on the coffee table, and turns to Dev, beaming, then takes in the ruffled, sleep-deprived picture he presents. “_You_ were falling asleep,” he states, his eyes narrowing on Dev.

“I was not!” Dev retorts, then punctuates it with a yawn. He sits up properly to make some room for Andrew, then tugs him closer, circles his arms around his chest.

“I really shouldn’t be indulging this behaviour,” Andrew says.

“You really shouldn’t,” Dev agrees, pulling him a little closer still. Andrew moves about a little to get more comfortable, eventually relaxing against Dev’s chest with a content sigh. Dev presses his lips against his cheek, his neck, his shoulder, then nuzzles happily into his hair. Did they have plans? He can’t remember. And anyway, he’d much prefer to stay this way, if anybody asked. A quiet moment passes with the wind outside picking up pace, then winding down, leaving a trail of smudged raindrops in its wake.

It’s been—a fast couple of months, the texting, coffee, drinks and movies, the way it’d always felt like there was room for something more. The way that Dev had kissed him for the first time, hurried and a little clumsy, the way that Andrew’d kissed him back. The way he’d said, “I’ve never, really—with a guy—” and they had laughed, relieved, and kissed again. They’d spun it into shape, this thing between them, delicate and blooming, took gentle care, learned how it took no sugars, only milk. It’s hard enough for them to end up in the same city, and when they do, it’s all Dev really wants: dinner and Andrew, the trailing sweetness of his mouth, the moving angle of his hips under Dev’s hands. The way he presses into him in the morning, barely conscious, the warm, familiar contrast of their skin. 

“So,” Dev says, remembering it suddenly with a smile, “_the modern notion of romantic love is seriously misguided?_”

“The livestream’s over,” Andrew replies, dragging his fingertips a little up and down Dev’s thigh, “you should have tweeted in your questions while you could.” 

Dev laughs, a _little_ wounded. “So that’s how far my privileges extend, huh? I’ve had to eat _naan_ on my last American Airlines flight that tasted like wet tea towel, and that is all I’m getting in return?”

Andrew tips back his head, decidedly grinning. “Maybe you should have, like, used some of your miles?”

“You’re cheeky, Andrew,” Dev says, “got all those livestreams getting to your pretty head. Besides, what’s wrong with 2.4 children?”

“Try finding a car seat for 0.4 children,” Andrew replies, dead serious.

“Good point,” Dev easily concedes.

It’s Pesach, which means that Andrew isn’t eating anything derived from leavened grain, like cereal, pasta, cake or bread. Instead, he had Dev try _matzah_ for breakfast, with butter and a little salt. They have decided to make stir-fry for dinner, have bought the aubergines and the Thai holy basil on the way back from their little walk. They are going to stay in, content to let the city wear itself out around them while they, for once, take all the time they need.

“In any case,” Andrew adds, and turns himself around in Dev’s arms, “that’s not what I meant for you to take away from this.” 

“What _did_ you mean for me to take away from this?” Dev asks, and suddenly feels almost starstruck, nervous, takes note of how his heart is beating itself straight out of his chest. Remembers the first time they really met, at the round table for The Hollywood Reporter, how easy it had seemed to fall into a rhythm, to place his hand into the small of Andrew’s back. How he’d gone back to his hotel that night biting the inside of his lip and giddy, thinking, what if there really _is_ a maybe, what if our schedules _do_ line up again. 

Andrew wraps a hand around the back of Dev’s neck and pulls himself closer. “This—” he says, and kisses him slowly, then kisses him again and again, adding, “—and this, and this, and this, and this.” It’s sometime in the afternoon, the sun already ceding, their fingers just a little frantic when they hook themselves into some fabric, tugging up. Dev follows Andrew’s mouth blindly, yanks him closer, grinds up and does not know who moans into the other first. 

“I’m glad we cleared this up,” Dev says, a little breathless, his forehead pressing against Andrew’s, his hands finding their way past Andrew’s hips to cup and give a gentle squeeze. And Andrew smiles, sinks low and lower, knows just how sensitive Dev is right _here_, and _here_ and _here_.

It’s later than they planned when they start cooking dinner, their hair still damp from showering, from all the time they couldn’t pull themselves away. Andrew explains to him the _seder_ while they’re cutting up the tofu and the aubergines are roasting, and Dev asks, “What’s that?” a lot, and is delighted when Andrew shows him pictures of him wearing a _tallit_. It’s all about these little bouts of private details they offer to each other, how carefully they accommodate the other into their space; how Andrew almost hurts himself from laughing, how Dev blushes; the warmth they share, the thrum of longing and desire underneath.

It’s all Dev really wants, boarding his British Airways flights from London Heathrow: _dinner and Andrew_, to get into a taxi, say the familiar address and lean back, letting the city take the lead. To slip into apartment number 14, to hear him say, “I missed you,” to be called so sweetly by your name.

It’s just a couple of days you’d be hard pressed to call a week, a metric unit of how much you want it, really. It’s all they have, for now; it’s so much more than what they used to have. Besides, it’s what they make of it that matters: the fabric of _each other_ they get to spin using an ever finer thread count, the little moments in between. It’s worth the bad _naan_, worth the jet lag. Worth all the times there isn’t a plus one. Worth the ache Dev knows will come and settle somewhere midway across the Atlantic Ocean, that will be hard to soothe or pry from in-between his ribs.

It’s not what he will think of now, though, not something he will concede while Andrew’s excitedly pulling out records, while Dev is carefully arranging cutlery and plates. Not something that there’s room for when Andrew kisses him and says, “You’ll love this, trust me,” and Dev knows that he most definitely will, but bargains for another kiss just because. 

So what if it’s New York City that they turn their backs on, so what if it’s the entire world, just for a bit. They _take_ their time, they leave their phones on silent. They say, “I want this for us,” very gently, and feel a warmth all over each time the other says it back.


End file.
